


A Meeting

by zerotolerancezone



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Sexual Violence, power bottom reaper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zerotolerancezone/pseuds/zerotolerancezone
Summary: “I should fucking kill you,” Jack says. He feels his lip curl. Reaper drags biting kisses down his neck, tasting the sweat and the skin and the shitty, military-issued aftershave.“But you’re not going to,” Reaper says, and lets go of his hair. His fingernails drag themselves down Jack’s spine. “You’re going to get on your knees.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, sorry, just had to get this out lmao  
> ENJOY, SICKOS (EDIT: this got more of a response than I was expecting so I just wanted to say, writing requests are always open)

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

He’s pretty in the early morning light, despite everything. His hair is grayer and he looks older, and more tired, and more guilty, but he’s still pretty, broad shoulders tight against his leather motorcycle jacket. A stoic expression sits stolidly on his face, blue eyes whitewashed and reflecting the sunrise.

Reaper runs his hands down his thighs.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, fingers brushing his waistband, working to unbuckle his belt where he stands behind the soldier. “Tell me to stop and I’ll let you go, Jackie.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jack says, eyes flicking to meet Reaper’s. 

“You used to love it when I called you that,” Reaper says, sharp fingernails brushing the vee of his hips. He’s teasing, in voice and in gesture, and he trails his hands up Jack’s spine, through his shoulder blades, into his gray hair. He holds tightly, wrenching his head back hard to kiss his temple gently, the pain juxtaposed by soft lips on his too-warm skin. “Didn’t you?”

“Watch yourself,” Jack growls. He’s still holding his gun, and he flicks the safety off.

“You’re not gonna use that on me,” Reaper tells him. It’s not a question when he adds, “Are you, Jackie?”

“I should fucking kill you,” Jack says. He feels his lip curl. Reaper drags biting kisses down his neck, tasting the sweat and the skin and the shitty, military-issued aftershave.

“But you’re not going to,” Reaper says, and lets go of his hair. His fingernails drag themselves down Jack’s spine. “You’re going to get on your knees.”

And Jack does, the cement cold under his calves. He unbuckles Reaper’s belt. It’s familiar, so painfully familiar, and yet so different, so fundamentally wrong. He feels sick. More than that, however, he feels achingly turned on.

He takes Reaper in his spit-slick hand, gives him a few shallow pumps. Reaper makes a noise- of disdain or approval, Jack can’t tell- and Jack gets him hard, throbbing against his palm. He takes the thick head of Reaper’s cock into his mouth, and Reaper tangles his fingers in his hair. It’s familiar, so painfully familiar. 

Reaper bucks into his mouth without warning, holding his head in place with his fingers. Jack coughs and gags around him, but he doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t pull back. He could easily escape this, but he doesn’t. He lets the familiar heat of his thick dick gag him. He lets Reaper fuck his mouth and groan above him. He lets Reaper use him.

“Ah, Jackie,” he croons. “You’re so good at this.”

Jack lets his teeth scrape his cock, just enough to warn. Reaper seems unafraid, bottoming out until his cock scrapes the back of Jack’s throat, Jack gagging, eyes watering hard as he places his palm on Reaper’s thick thighs, trying hard to steady himself.

“Careful, Jackie,” Reaper growls, pulling his cock out of his mouth and letting Jack collect himself, breathing hard, spit thick on his chin. “Wouldn’t want any unfortunate accidents, would we?”

“Fuck you,” Jack manages through the thickness of his scratching throat, his aching jaw. He spits at the ground by his feet, like he’s trying to escape the taste of him, but his arousal is heavy in his tented pants.

“Is that the plan?” Reaper asks. “You wanna fuck me, Jackie?”

Jack wants to tell him to fuck off, to leave and never come back. Reaper massages his fingernails through Jack’s scalp, the feeling like electricity on his skin. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is-

“Yes, sir.”

It’s tiny and desperate and aching, pouring out of his mouth before he can bite it back.

“I can’t hear you, Morrison,” Reaper says, before clenching his fists in Jack’s hair and wrenching his head back again, leaning in close to whisper, “What was that?”

His breath smells like smoke. His eyes are black and evil. Jack wants to spit in his face. Jack wants to shoot him. He could, could turn his gun on him and take him by surprise, end this once and for all.

“Yes,” he says instead. 

“That’s what I thought,” Reaper laughs, slapping his cheek hard enough to sting. “Good boy.”

Jack puts his gun on the ground, and it feels like he’s missing a part of himself when it’s out of his hands. 

Even still, he is entranced when Reaper peels off those godforsaken faux-leather pants that cling to his meaty ass and strong legs, scarred from years and years of battle. He is entranced when he sheds his cloaks and clothing, leaving nothing but scarred brown skin. He is entranced when Reaper bends down and pulls lube from Jack’s pocket knowingly, entranced when he pours the packet onto his fingers and greedily fucks himself open on them, rocking back onto his fingers on the cold cement ground.

Jack’s mouth is dry, face flushed. He wants to touch him. He wants to grab him and shove his cock inside of him and fuck him until forgets his name. 

But he doesn’t. He’s patient, watching Reaper, watching him throw his head back and growl his arousal. He’s patient, his cock aching in his suddenly too-tight jeans, until Reaper looks back to him. It’s enough of a sign for Jack, who pulls himself forward and runs his hands over Reaper’s ass and bites back a stupid groan at the feeling of his skin. 

He spits onto his fingers and circles Reaper’s hole. He’s aching for this- it’s been so long, so long since he got to feel Gabriel.

Reaper, he reminds himself.

He shoves his fingers into him and Reaper groans.

“Yes,” he growls, pushing himself back onto Jack until his palm touches his ass, as far deep as Jack’s fingers can go. “Fuck me, already.”

When they were younger, they could spend hours here, in the half life between fucking and foreplay, just enjoying each other’s touch. They could kiss and grind and not even come, not for hours. 

Now, it’s all they’re together for, all they’re there to do. There’s no laughter, no smiling, no love.

“Jackie,” Reaper warns.

“Shut up,” Jack growls.

Jack pulls himself from his pants, cold air chilling on his skin. He presses against Reaper before sliding in slowly, inch by inch. There’s not enough lube, Jack thinks. It must hurt. 

Good.

Reaper groans, pushing back to meet him until Jack bottoms out. He starts moving before Jack does, riding him, huffing, “Hurry up, Jackie.”

Jack grabs his hips, slams into him hard. He watches Reaper shudder. They fuck like they’re fighting, snapping hips and slapping skin. Jack slaps Reaper’s ass as hard as his hands will allow and Reaper moans at the heady mix of pleasure and pain.

Reaper’s voice is rough as he takes Jack’s cock. Jack can feel himself getting close, Reaper taking him deep and hard.

“I want you-- to cut me,” Reaper says. Jack can feel his expression change, but his pace doesn’t change. “Hit me. Hurt me. That’s what you-- want, isn’t it?”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

“Sick fuck,” Reaper growls.

Jack pulls the combat knife from his boot holster and presses it against Reaper’s back. Reaper sucks in a breath at the feeling of cold metal against him. Jack could slit his throat, leave him dying on the pavement- his heart hammers at the thought. Jack drags a tiny cut into his spine, and for the first time, Reaper stops moving, throwing his head back to moan as blood beads around the shallow cut.

“Yes,” Reaper groans.

Jack curls his hand into Reaper’s curly hair with his free hand, his other hand bringing the flat of his blade across Reaper’s cut, watching the blood move. He slams Reaper’s face down into the concrete and fucks into him harder, faster, earning something that sounds close to a whimper.

“Jack, fuck,” Reaper huffs, breathless. It’s good to know he can still be breathless. “Jackie.”

Jack cuts between his shoulderblades now, a tiny line of red against the mocha of his skin. Reaper gives him another gratifying moan. 

“Fuck me harder,” he demands.

Jack does as told.

His rhythm begins to falter. He can feel he’s getting close, arousal building in the pit of his stomach, a coiling heat that paints his skin like a brand. 

“Choke me,” Reaper says.

Jack takes him from off the ground, wrapping a strong arm around his neck. Their bodies are so close, now, sweat slick. Jack keeps fucking him, harder, harder, harder, even as his arm begins to squeeze his neck. 

Reaper’s fingernails dig into Jack’s arm, tearing at his pale skin, blood welling around the sharp points. The pain clouds his head, makes him feel hot. 

He cums inside of Reaper, riding him hard through the waves of a white hot orgasm. He doesn’t let him go, chokehold enveloping, until he’s sure he must be beginning to black out, and when he does release him, Reaper falls to all fours, coughing and gasping for breath as he cums thick ropes of white, his pretty legs shaking.

They lay on the cold cement, against each other and yet a million miles apart. 

Jack rubs his hand up Reaper’s bare chest. He listens to the two of them breathing. For a moment, it is almost nice. It is almost familiar. They are almost Jackie and Gabriel again. 

Reaper kisses his lips, the sensation warm.

And in an instant, Reaper is gone again in a puff of black smoke. 

Jack makes his way back to base, gun in hand. The next time he sees Reaper, he’ll put a bullet in that thick skull.

Next time, he tells himself. Next time.


End file.
